Something In the Way She Moves
by Fangirlin'it
Summary: Socialites and out-of-work artists make strange bedfellows. But what if they don't?
1. Chapter 1

**Note:** Brief F/M/M sexual content.

* * *

When Emma sees her she doesn't know her name or why she is there. She knows only two things about her: she has the most beautiful eyes, the kind of earthen brown Emma favors on her palette, and she owns a body to die for. Emma hasn't even the chance to shed her coat before she is aflame with desire.

It happens in a span of seconds, from the moment the valet takes her stifling jacket at the entrance to the last step taken into the foyer. Emma's dress shoes stomp to a halt, leaving her in perfect alignment under the tinkling chandelier. She could get impaled by one of the fixture's spear-like crystals and her eyes would still be glazed over in rapture all because this nameless woman has an effect on Emma too great to be stamped with a definition. As far as she is concerned words are mortal things unqualified to present before this goddess. Mortal and inconsequential like Emma Swan herself.

In fact, Emma might as well call it a night because for as attractive as the brunette looks, they will not be going home together – not when a $2,000 dress and an entourage is her competition. The brown-eyed beauty, smiling and laughing and mingling with people of her stature and dress, isn't batting for Emma's team nor is she even in the same league.

It's just a feeling that dawns on her in the 15 seconds she is aware of the woman's existence. Hunches are not an exact science and they don't always bode well for a single, financially struggling painter like Emma. One's perspective may have fine-tuned after their move to the big city, but their intuition didn't change with the geography.

What she is good at is judging character. She can spot a phony, a windbag, and a mollycoddler from a mile away and this brunette is only across the room (a far cry from a mile). It's a damaging criterion, but this woman fits none of the above. If Emma is to guess, she will be intelligent, intellectual, a social climber with a conscience. But the kicker? She will be uncompromising with new talent, the kind with no money or connections or even a passport. Emma planned a trip to Quebec during her final year of college and misplaced it before ever breathing Canadian air.

Honestly, Emma couldn't blame her. Destitute artists aren't the greatest company, especially if they've misplaced their muse. All in all, she actually looked like a nice person. It's just that they are two different people with two separate experiences which led one to pick a red Donna Karan and the other to prefer the black slacks and a faded silk green blouse from a clearance rack. Everyone should be with their own kind. There shouldn't be any blurred lines. Socialites and out-of-work artists make strange bedfellows.

Emma shakes her head, rolling her eyes to herself. It's a bullshit assumption. She does this sometimes, second guessing and sabotaging her chances even before the customary handshake.

With a sigh she walks straight to the makeshift wet bar stationed not far from the festivities and smiles at the man tending it. She grasps the fluke and tips it back in two long gulps. A few more of these and all those insecurities will float, fizz, and pot like the bubbles in her champagne.

She spends the first hour admiring the house with a modest eye and scouting the patrons against her will. Normally, her Friday nights were spent on the subway, moving from locale to locale in search of inspiration. Lately though, Emma had taken to staring at a blank canvas into the late hours of the night and she might rather prefer it to this gala. That, or fuck boredom away with a total stranger (not that she had a candidate in mind). Emma would have declined the invitation, but the acquaintance who afforded her this opportunity gave her a not-so-subtle reminder of which rung she resides on in the art world and a stern lecture on the importance of networking. And if there is anything Emma needs now besides a decent buzz it's a sponsor.

Emma has called herself an artist ever since she could pick up a crayon, but only in the past few years has she pursued it in a professional capacity. She isn't the greatest example of a post-graduate who gets offers left and right. She isn't a success story. She isn't the next great anything.

The remedy didn't turn out to be the soul-searching trove of creativity she expected. Living in the cultural center of metropolis doesn't mean shit if you can't sell a painting. Emma may have moved to the big city for opportunity, success, and pastrami, but what she got in return was a high-rent hole in the wall, pennies for portraits, and stale bagels with schmear at 3 o'clock in the morning. While her paintings seem to grow more vibrant in the city lights and her courage sprouting to more daring heights, she has yet to prove wrong every soul from her past who claimed she hadn't got a snowball's chance in hell of "making it."

While Emma doesn't consider herself a great painter she will call herself good. And though it irks her humble nature, she makes an effort to attend these galas and benefits. After all, it can only help get her name out there. As long as she smiles pretty and uses big words – two things in short supply to Emma.

After an hour of observing from the sidelines she makes her move. Of the hundred or so guests tucked in this mansion only a handful are on a first name basis with her. She chats with those she's acquainted with, trusted people who couldn't give a shit how many paintings she's sold (or hasn't sold). And that's when the night turns interesting.

It is not long after ducking in on a few conversations that Emma finds out that the woman she'd been eying up is the very owner of the mansion they are in. And to make chances worse she has to be Regina Mills, host of this gala and the city's most illustrious benefactor of fine art.

"You're fucking kidding me," she mutters under her breath, hunched shoulder-to-shoulder in the gossip circle.

A 30-something stiff in an overpriced suit leans a bit too close for comfort. "Pardon?"

"You wanna pardon me," Emma frowns and gestures with her glass, "do it to my face, pal."

His eyes leave the subtle dip of her blouse and widen to an uncompromising face. A beat later his brow is arched and a leering stare down ensues.

At the same moment while she considers breaking his pretty little nose and ditching the party, Emma knocks back half her drink and turns around. "Asshole."

Her tongue is lubricated enough to overlook her inhibitions not to mention the decibels with which she speaks, but her insult is hardly noted over the din of merriment.

She won't leave though, not when it's open bar season and she has yet to rub elbows with the best of the best – namely Miss Mills. At the moment, Emma can't decide what she wants to result from a meet and greet with the wealthy benefactor. Until that time, she considers her host's credentials.

While Regina is no CEO or heiress to a royal throne she does manage a successful publication. As editor-in-chief of _The Contemporary Art Review_ Regina prints a wide variety of contributions from well-known artists and spotlights the most anticipated exhibitions of the year. Though her friends include the famous and über-talented, her main objective as a benefactor and magazine editor is to discover new artists, and not from the ordinary pool.

There is no room to discriminate when it comes to artistic talent. If anything, Regina is interested in the highly diverse, where an individual hasn't heard of Kandinsky much less seen one, but could paint the shit out of canvas before even laying brush to it. She likes to find prodigies in unlikely neighborhoods, wunderkinds from unforgiving backgrounds. It is a purpose close to her heart and a mystery as to why. Only one person can explain her ravenous curiosity for the most undiscovered and deprived of artists and she is not talking.

Her eye for talent has become legendary in artistic circles and she is affectionately known as "The Connection" amongst those special few who drop her name in a gallery and are subsequently fast-tracked to next month's leading exhibition. Many celebrated painters and sculptors of today can owe their thanks to Regina Mills.

Emma had always hoped (in vain) to count herself among that special group. Even now as a guest in her lavish home and drinking her booze the artist has delusions of grandeur. The house may be a fraction of Emma's income and the champagne bottled in some region she can't pronounce, but she will be remiss to say she can't see herself as Regina Mills' next big "It" artist.

Careers soar because of her, but Emma is all too aware that the woman can also be ruthlessly efficient in stating an opinion. She can easily say no to a sculptor's excruciating three year rendition of the Venus de Milo than she can to a street vendor's grease fare. Wasted time is just as profitless as wasted talent. Emma has read _The Contemporary Art Review_. She understands the high standards its editor-and-chief embraces.

Emma weaves through the throng like a marble in a pinball machine, knocking between a group of exuberant German critics debating amongst some soft spoken yet calculated Italians and sliding past a couple of artists miles above the legal limit and wheedling the DJ to "kick this party up!"

With a bit of artful dodging she finally escapes and slips outside for some fresh air. The night is cloudless save for the haze of tobacco. It's a tad nippy, but just right to cool the sweat from her brow. The backyard is peopled by a younger, vagrant crowd Emma can let her guard down with. A smirk brightens her mood as she detects the slight whiff of good quality marijuana.

She unabashedly kicks her heels off and sighs as the blades of frosted grass tickle between her toes. She could care less about propriety when she just needs a damn break from the mansion full of brazen oglers and ass kissers. It isn't the first time she wonders why a nobody like her is doing in a someplace like this.

It's just then, by some odd fluke, that she gets lured into a group of innocent-looking existentialists. They're talking about music's influence on abstract art and the merits of Kandinsky. Fifteen minutes in and it's turned into a pleasantly heated argument. Emma actually finds her cheeks are sore because it's the first time she's smiled this much in ages (maybe ever) and maybe she's having fun and maybe this gala isn't a disaster after all. But as the voices escalate Emma soon realizes she's losing the debate and it's three against one. Then with no warning and seemingly from nowhere Emma's savior swoops in.

"Was it not Diego Rivera who said that Kandinsky opens a window to look inside the All?"

"Yes!" exclaimed Emma who throws her hands up in relief. "Thank you! That's –"

Her mouth is left hung open and her eyes are blown to such proportion that has everyone waiting. Regina Mills, alleged savior, has this little smirk like she knows something no one else does. In fact, for an odd space of time Emma gets the feeling like they are the only two people on the planet in possession of some epic secret.

The hostess raises her brow expectantly as Emma wets her lips.

"Uh… that's exactly what I was thinking," she finishes, her eyes more intrigued by the woman than her mumbled tone.

Regina hums an affirmative, "Yes, Rivera made such a statement at a San Francisco exhibition in –"

"1931," Emma joins in as their eyes meet and narrow again.

"And went on to assert that he organized matter as matter was organized, otherwise the Universe would not exist. He was – I quote – the best known and –"

"Best loved of men," Emma finished. By now their eyes are probing and smiles beaming.

"That's cute and all" says a spiky haired young girl, fag burning up to the butt between her thumb and forefinger, "but the source of debate here is on his work not the quantity of autographs sold."

"Are we not?" Regina's hand planted at her hip. " _Let's_ talk about how many autographs. He galvanized a movement after all."

The girl waves a hand, dismissing, "Grandstanding."

"Kandinsky was a pioneer in abstraction. You cannot debate common knowledge."

"We are not disputing his contribution to history," settles the tall blonde man, the unofficial leader of the opposing side, "but his merit to the contemporary. No one looks inward for inspiration nowadays. It's all external sensory overload! It's all chaos and disintegration!"

Emma gives a shriek of laughter just as Regina joins in beside her. Their cheeks are rosy from debate and the cool night, yet they laugh and wheeze before the blank expressions staring their way, oblivious to the joke. Their eyes meet, sparkling and knowing. The brunette nods as if in permission.

Grinning like a fool, Emma takes the lead. "Man, you have no idea how badly you just sabotaged your argument. Kandinsky's abstracts are in fact chaos and disintegration, especially if we're talking about pre-World War I."

Desperately passionate in the issue her and her teammate were swiftly nailing, Regina leans closer into Emma. "And his chaos – or disciplined chaos, as I like to refer – is expressed through the internal, _not_ the external, hence his use of music in representing the soul. His inner feelings were _composed_ , if you will, through musical structure."

"So if you can show us an artist today who doesn't use music as a means to express their creativity…" Emma raises her hands and looks around at the pool of fledgling hipsters, "… You win your argument and put iPods out of business." As an afterthought she shrugs innocently and dips her head. "No pressure."

"Alright, alright," the blonde guy waves his hands for a ceasefire. "You've made your point."

"No, I mean go ahead – really. Procure a candidate. I dare ya."

"Please," he sulks good-naturedly, "rub it in some more."

"Not until you've formally surrendered."

"Yes," Regina lobs in with an indulgent grin, " _please_."

The guy slips the hanky from his friend's back pocket (so old school) and flourishes it in midair. "Okay? Now can you lay down your arms?"

Emma's pout is deeply serious. "The flag's not white."

At first he thinks she's serious – even the owner of the 'flag' has gone magenta to the tips of his ears – and then everyone is squawking with laughter. He emits a chuckling sigh, shakes his head, and scrubs his hands over his face as his teammates slap him on the back and knead his shoulders.

In the heat of victory Emma raises her hand to Regina who stares at it like it's sprouted a sixth digit. Her head tips awkwardly and Emma feels the odd stare boring right through her. Humiliation creeps in like an ex-lover who forgot her toothbrush. She lowers her hand a bit as it occurs to her that a high five may not be the ideal strategy in wooing a new sponsor. But just before the hand lowers out of range it is met with a jubilant mid-high five. Regina's giggle is like music to her ears.

Cheeks numb from the dumb expression on her face, Emma keeps on smiling. She shifts her feet anxiously and feels the prickle of grass. The smile drops. Mortified that she's in Regina Mills' vicinity barefoot as a Barbie nymph (with bleach blonde hair no less), Emma catches herself before slapping her forehead in a Bart Simpson special, "D'oh!"

So she clears her throat and says, "Hey," (a classic) and looks between the ground and some nondescript place on Donna Karan red. "So I guess we haven't been formerly introduced. My name is –"

And before Emma can utter another syllable Regina is being dragged off by her publicist. The intruder is dolled up in a roaring 20s bob and dressed to the nines in a power suit. She's talking at a speed Emma's pretty sure can break the sound barrier and flitting her hands about like it's a matter of life, death, and money. To her chagrin, Emma can't even understand the words because they are already being discussed halfway across the yard and passing the threshold into the mansion.

 _Was it something I said?_

Ostracized from all remaining circles due to her semi-hostile debating tactics and seemingly overlooked by a beautiful woman, Emma is left standing barefoot and mystified. Did she not speak loud enough or is this Regina the uncompromising busy body Emma pinned her as? Least important but just as essential among Emma's speculations is the magazine editor's necessity for a publicist.

A third trip to the wet bar is called for; anything to get her mind off Regina.

But the liquor only exacerbates the problem. Shots of tequila are brought out, some weed is passed around, and the music increases in volume and sexual suggestion. Emma indulges in the frivolities, unaware how radically it will alter her night.

Regina Mills' galas are notorious for their shift to the risqué. There is always room for alcohol, illegal substances (which lubricate the artistic muse in everyone), and public spectacles of intimacy between orientations of all variety.

And does Emma mind? Not one bit.

Soon, furthering her stagnant career ceases to stand as her purpose for remaining at the party. Art (at least in the tradition sense) is the last thing on her mind. With every shot of tequila her image of Regina transforms: beaming brown eyes get a shade darker, things get a little naked, limbs strain into some evocative positions, and sooner or later Emma has developed a full-blown sex fantasy.

She doesn't get a pull on the joint some moderately attractive girl offers – not that she'd take a hit from someone prettier. After having heard Regina's voice, the trill of her laugh, the sensual groan of a hum, Emma already thinks she's hallucinating the sound of that smoky, sultry…

"Shit," she curses and slaps the heat from her cheeks. "Snap out of it."

"Hey!" A man, shirt aloofly unbuttoned to display his pecks, pushes through the mosh pit. He cocks his head up and says, "You look like you could get loose."

"Not with you," Emma says and if her inhibitions were further removed she would tell him exactly who.

He squints through whatever concoction of drug administered and moves over to another woman nearby and gives her the same proposal.

Emma's starting to feel even looser; her head is bobbing to the music and there's a slight spring in her step as she moves through the house. She's feeling a little reckless at some point and in post-midnight haze there's only one thing she desires more than a hot bath. It's then that her eyes fall on the publicist with the flapper-do. Emma's eyes widen a bit at the woman's spastic dancing, but she gives her credit for ditching the snooty act. Smoothly, Emma sidles up next to her and makes casual conversation. It is in her skilled, roundabout way that information is extracted and the publicist is either too wasted or not interested enough to care.

The second floor of Mills Manor is deserted and quiet save for the jackhammering of Emma's heartbeat. She continues to hum to the music as her steps take her further from the beat. More importantly, she's moving so much further from civilization that she has no idea what she'll find at the end of the hall.

Her feet stop and she frowns. The publicist hadn't specified where Regina would be upstairs. The estate is a maze of rooms and hallways. Even the top floor is lined with nondescript shiny brass door knobs.

 _But which one?_

Emma's eyes shift from door to door, wondering if is in her best interests to open something that is shut. She did not need to get another mark on her record as her prior 'visit' to prison tends to turn off prospective employers. Opening the metaphorical Pandora's Box will not see her through to that high profile exhibition she'd dreamed about in many a closet home her foster families set aside for her. But does breaking and entering count as a felony if one is already invited into the home?

 _Not if I'm expected._

Her chuckle echoes down the hall and she has to slap a hand to her mouth. Her eye notices a door, open by a crack where a sliver of light casts onto the hallway runner. Emma squints through the darkness and creeps towards it, minding her step over timeworn flooring. It's not until her eyes adjust to the lighted setting of the room that the fog of the party dissipates. The music, the booze, the purple haze, all of it recedes for absolute clarity. Emma has never felt so clear-headed, so in tune with reality, and she has to bring a hand up to her mouth again to stifle her foul mouth.

Yeah, she's found the right room, but oh boy is her timing wrong (or pretty damn precise considering Emma's intentions).

She can't utter a sound, not because she shouldn't but because her mouth has gone sandy dry. She doesn't dare speak, or move, or blink. Her feet are rooted to where she stands which will certainly give her away if the party of three inside merely turns their heads. Half in favor of peeling out of there, half sweet on risking a night in jail for trespassing, Emma picks the second on a whim.

Observing from the shadows, Emma sees the outline of three individuals, the lamplight casting them in complete nakedness as they grind uninhibited against one another. Yet her yawning pupils are not a result of the two men, clean cut hair and the grizzly jaws they were kissing not a few hours ago next to the DJ station. No, Emma zeroes in on the woman pressed between the hunks of muscle, one penetrating her from behind and the other with his dark mouth on her breast. They move slowly, sensually, much to Emma's astonishment. It is a succulent waltz – a scandal to the eyes of the disapproving – thrusting one boundary after another into demise.

And the context is not lost on Emma. It is crystal clear.

The man at Regina's nipple grabs his companion's buttocks as it surges forth and triggers pleasing sounds from her. It is a delightful reel of push and pull, a dance of lovers so equal and consenting. Emma will swear to never having seen anything of this nature, not on screen and sure as hell not in her matchstick box of a bedroom.

The astounding thing she takes from this (besides pleasure) is the beauty in the act. Three individuals giving and receiving unselfishly… it is raw and emotional and highly octane. It is two men and one woman sharing a dynamic of power and of tenderness.

It is art at its most material. The light brings color to their flushed skin, a variant of three shades; sounds mix and combine to create music of the richest, reserved form; bodies mesh at the curves, the length of their svelte frames making contours of their three selves and melding into one.

It is much like cuisine, art, using all senses to perceive the joy of the dish (or work, if you will). And is it ever an extravagant dish, Emma thinks as she flicks her tongue out into the air to dab at her lips, a canvas drawing many warm colors from a palate. Emma can't _not_ appreciate it. She can make attempt after attempt and never come close to painting this… this feast for the eyes

And these verdant green eyes cannot keep themselves off Regina, certainly not when the woman's head falls to the side. Their eyes meet and widen, but neither can stop. Regina keens forward and back, hands roaming through two shades of hair while Emma stares in rapt attention. Her eyes glaze over as they observe the tightening muscles of Regina's abdomen, the arch of a back, a shuddering trail through thighs and calves.

If Emma had any indication of her own body's response she would have eased away (if only for her own good). She is, in fact, in a lot of pain and not just from observing the passionate affair from the sidelines. At the risk of toppling over, Emma propped herself upright with a hand to the door jamb. Fingers flex and nails dig in as her grasp on the wood gets achingly harder. It is the only fixed point in her world – proof that this is not just a fantasy. It is her only grip on reality and she will not let go.

It is not long before Regina's mouth opens wide in a sultry moan. The man at her breast, now knelt in worship, flicks his tongue against her clit. From behind Regina his partner, with one hand on her hip, uses the other to straighten her against him with a hand at her collar bone. Head lolled back on his shoulder, she rises to her toes and arches on the slick skin of his chest. Her eyes are fixed with Emma's, still, when she utters a startling exclamation.

It is only then when Emma remembers how to breathe. She exhales long and low with Regina as they float down from their high. Just when her hand releases from the door jamb a flood of pain escalates through her arm and reminds her how long she has stood there. Emma winces against the soreness and when her eyes squint open Regina has opened the door fully. Stumbling back, Emma's mouth works up the courage but no words come out. It seems as if all sense has failed her. She can't even remember the English word for "um." Either Emma's suffering from brain damage or Regina is that drop dead gorgeous.

"We have a visitor, boys."

Emma blinks, realizing the words came from the naked goddess inviting her in. She can only raise her brows in response. Her feet propel her forth and she is guided into the warm colors by her hostess. Emma feels like putty in Regina's hands, and that is simply a-okay by her.

"What do you think?" her smudged red lips ask and, at first, Emma thinks it is directed to her. "Shall we invite her to play?"

The "boys" nod in affirmation. Their smiles are indulgent and kind, making Emma feel more welcome here than anywhere before. It is not until this sign of trust that she releases the death grip on Regina's hands. Her poor victim had taken it like a trooper and still her eyes smiled and her lips quirked up in delight. In fact, if Emma had control of her powers of observation, she looked downright anxious.

Emma is a bundle of nerves and excitement. Her skin thrums with the anticipation of brushing against naked, olive flesh just as her brain ices over into a solid cube of half-thoughts and obscure logic. It is not until Regina's hands are on her face and her mouth against hers that a thousand and one neurons fire off inside her head. It's like those lips sparked a frenzy of snap, crackle and pop within as well as without.

Emma shivers from head toe. They kiss tentatively like the first brushstrokes whispering on potential work of art before delving further. With a sigh, Emma allows the tongue to explore about her depths. Kissing Regina is unlike anything she has ever experienced, much less imagined. She feels light as a dove and if she had a starry-eyed sense of humor she'd say her very body was levitating off the floor.

She can sense the men taking their positions behind them. Emma doesn't falter when she feels the large, calloused hands of a sculptor on her sides, but she doesn't really _feel_ them. All she feels are soft lips on hers, a curious tongue dipping in, and hands combing through her hair like it is the first stroke of autumn. Regina feels like a promise of change, of brilliant color to her life. It is quite a bit to pack all in one kiss, and Emma wonders if this woman realizes the affect she has on her – in this moment as well as when she first saw her.

But will sharing her diminish this effect?

Emma can't shake the possibility that having Regina to herself will be more breathtaking than otherwise. It's a doubt that festers underneath the skin and causes well-founded ambition to falter.

Suddenly, mouth and hands draw away. Regina lingers enough for her scent to flood Emma's senses, but far enough to bring a pout to kiss-stained lips. In post-make out haze, Emma detects that same odd look harkening back to a cautious high-five.

"Let us leave these two to their own devices," Regina says. She caresses the cheek of the man behind her before slipping on a robe and leading Emma from the room by a tug on her hand.

Emma has but to look over her shoulder to know the men they are leaving behind will not mourn the loss of two beautiful women. In fact, they are content as can be in cupping each of their scruffy cheeks, lips on lips above a pair of stiff cocks.

Wrapped in finely spun silk depicting an assortment of cherry blossoms, Regina weaves her fingers through the clammy ones of her admirer. At this point, Emma can't really deny her. Now that she has this beautiful stranger all to herself she will not trade anything for a solitary night alone with her.

They walk to the door at the far end of the hallway. The whole time Emma's eyes behold the fluttering robe just where the edge meets the backs of Regina's knees. Her fingers twitch in anticipation of drawing artful circles in that hollow. She is so enraptured that her feet forget how to walk and send her stumbling into the wall.

"Are you alright?" Regina asks, a chuckle in conflict with her frown.

Emma is frantically righting a picture frame knocked by her humbling footwork. She shakes her addled blonde head before responding with a "Yep."

The master bedroom is larger and more lavishly decorated than the previous. Actually, it is not so much lavish as it is homey. It has a lived-in quality, unlike the sparse room Emma peeked in on. This bedroom is decked with the necessary furniture needed for daily living and demonstrates its ownership in the picture frames posed on the dresser, the vanity's essentials dispersed in organized form, a modest walk-in closet which sparks a curiosity in Emma's fashionista, and an immense ceiling-high bookshelf packed with worn and glossy spines alike.

This glimpse into the wealthy benefactor's life is interrupted when Regina gently shoves her against the door. Emma hears the click behind her and knows that there is no turning back.


	2. Chapter 2

When Regina sees her she doesn't know her name or who invited her. She knows only two things: her hands are not those of a sculptor and her ass is one to surely die for. Regina hasn't even seen this woman's face and her imagination is blossoming with colorful fantasies.

Regina Mills, editor-in-chief of _The Contemporary Art Review_ and ruthless talent scout, takes her sip of champagne and contemplates the night. This absurd gala was requested of her by her friend and publicist Pam Taggart. To be precise, it wasn't so much requested of her as it was thrust upon her. Regina doesn't like the spotlight, nor does she like to make small talk with two-faced egoists. The loop hole, of course, is that she had been raised in the spotlight, and, as a result, was a darling of the camera as well as at the podium. Her people skills were her curse.

If she had it her way the whole lot of them wouldn't ever have been invited. Regina knows only half of these people through business relations, yet every single bloke and broad that walks through her door knows everything about her down to how she takes her coffee. Ten years of obligatory interviews does that, and being wealthy has a way of luring all the gold diggers out of the woodwork. These days a large black Americano equated a Tiffany diamond ring.

Of course, being pursued so relentlessly has its perks. She has her pick of a variety of lovers and when their time was up she'd cut them loose as soon as the bed lost heat. And if they threatened to smear her in the press she'd simply sick Pam on them and watch from the high seats as blood gets spilt. Regina would be neglectful to claim a sensitive, tortured soul on a quest for their muse isn't a great lay.

But these parties are like a lifetime sentence without parole. The day in and day out managing of a magazine is taxing enough. Now she had to put a megawatt smile on and flit about like money matters above all things. Pam assures her time and again that these things are a price to pay for success and it's best not to nail Jello to a tree. "Like a Band-Aid," she would say. "Get it over with lickety-split!"

While Regina is left to raise a brow to her friend's colloquialisms and host gala after gala, the Mills bank account only acquires more zeroes. Lately, Regina has developed misgivings about her line of work. Since when has her career consisted of pleasing people and supplying them with free booze? What happened to what she wants? When was the last time she earned a cent from something she created with her own two hands?

The whole idea that the host of a party gets out of socializing due to their responsibilities behind the scenes is utter bullshit in these circumstances. Thanks to some shuffling of money on Pam's part there is a lovely battalion of waitstaff at Regina's service, leaving her free to rub elbows and chit chat with the most artistic snobs the city has to offer.

"Smile," Pam advised her at the first chime of the doorbell. "You look as if you're going to walk the plank."

"Into shark infested waters?" Regina quipped darkly, taking her sweet time in walking to the foyer. "I may as well be."

Two hours into the party and she indeed felt like lusted dinner – and not just because of the shapely figure under her favorite shade of Donna Karan. No, many of these vultures desire her golden ticket referrals which are like a fast track to artiste nirvana.

 _Take a number, you sharks, and wait in line like every other struggling artist in this city._

Her pricey waitstaff weave in and amongst guests, presenting their offerings on five spread fingers. And on the trays, like succulent jewels, perch an assortment of canapés and the finest trifles the sea has to offer. Because Regina spares no expense, the food is no doubt a hit. The champagne is getting consumed just as fast and with every popped cork a wave of applause spreads through the estate.

Having hosted these galas for the umpteenth time, Regina has this down to a science: ply the guests with alcohol, make a point of saying hello to everyone so as to uphold her image, close at least three deals between corporate sponsors and their new beneficiaries, and kindly show all parties not listed on her estate's deed out the door by two o'clock. It is a good night if she happens to coax a casual affair out of it. A bad night, however, usually ends in another empty bed, a lonely heart, and a hangover come sunrise.

With Pam Taggart in her arsenal Regina is equipped for every disaster, and with experience she is prepared for any unlikely scenario at these galas. Yet nothing prepares her for the attendance of one guest in particular.

The blonde is easy to spot among the crowd as she sticks out like a sore thumb. It's not the rumpled silk green shirt or disobedient curls that accost Regina's better sensibilities but the foul mouth.

"Asshole."

Regina is in discussion with a group of patrons when she hears it. She turns sharply but the insult is not directed at her. Instead, she catches Jonathan, the braggart expressionist painter who hounded her for months to snag a contribution in her magazine. He is staring after the swinging ass of an offended blonde woman. And oh is it a nice ass.

At the expense of Jonathan's coarse nature, Regina grins to herself and compliments with a murmured, "Good girl."

Questions about her magazine's recent issue beckon her back to the group. The conversation was stale to begin with and minutes later the patrons have completely lost her interest, not only because of their limited understanding in how to run a respectable publication but because the bold actions of the blonde woman are still in her thoughts. Like a Super 8 projector stuck on a loop, Regina finds that she can't stop the memory of the retreating blonde. It plays over and over in her mind until she is forced to excuse herself from the group.

It is not long before she tethers that same blonde head and those swaying, sultry hips in her sights. This nameless woman seems to have sparked a long dormant intensity in Regina and she is at a loss as how to confront it (or _her_ ). So Regina examines the challenge from the throng's outer rim.

The blonde is not fooled by these people – _Regina's_ so-called people – and she doesn't care to associate herself with them either. And she might not realize it, but she is just like everyone else in that she's there for her career. Still, there is a humble persistence in the way she carries herself, a stubborn effort not to sell out at a seemingly marvelous rate. In that, she is hardened against the seductive side of the art world where a naïve artist from Beaverdam, Ohio can and will be ensnared by the big bad, double-dealing sponsors.

There is a distinct "eat shit" expression on her face. Many a time has Regina been faced with rudeness, but never has it been accompanied by a nervous tick. In her careful study from afar, she notices that the antsy hands are reason for such an unruly mane of hair. Regina watches the girl comb from her hairline, around her ear, and aggressively flicking out when a snarl interposes. This little habit draws her attention to the hands. The fingers were long, pale, and somewhat delicate. Regina has a keen eye for these things, having worked with many artists over the years. Based on these hands she is not a sculptor – one needs strapping, spread eagle tools for the molding of such art. These hands combing through flaxen were eloquent and thoughtful, the type necessary to position a brush millimeters from a surface. In that, her muscular arms were rather useful in holding her instruments up for long periods of time.

 _She's a painter._

Regina smiles and she doesn't know for what reason. Or maybe she does and just doesn't want to admit what it means to her. In any case, this pretty sore thumb is a painter and if Regina wants to uphold her purpose in discovering unlikely talent she needs to know more.

She asks a few trusted friends and uncovers the mystery. The woman's name is Emma Swan. For an artist in her late twenties it took her a while to reach the bright lights of the city. It is uncommon for someone like this Miss Swan who came from a rural nowhere, graduated at a moderately acclaimed university, and spent the following years wandering aimlessly with nothing to show for it. And since arriving in the city no galleries have yet to display her work, she has entered no competitions, and, according to whispers, is unsponsored and up to her knees in debt. With the exception of a few low level artists, no one knows of Emma Swan's work. She is a virtual nobody and in the art world that is like a nail in your coffin.

This strikes Regina as unambitious. There are two kinds of undiscovered talent: those that don't want to be found and those that don't have the resources to _be_ found. Regina is hesitant to take yet another chance on a struggling artist not because she has lost faith in her goal but because the whole process is an exhausting one. Sometimes she feels like she's sacrificed half her life for these people. She gives them her time, her money, and sometimes her heart. And after years of this routine Regina's compassion has all but dried up.

There is always a reason why an artist remains a free agent for that long; either they are too modest for their own good or they are just a pain in the ass. The jury is still out on Emma Swan. Regina takes her work seriously and if she is to make a comprehensive opinion of this woman she has to meet her face-to-face.

The notion has little shockwaves running over Regina's raised flesh and leaving her hair standing on end. Why she is so anxious to encounter Emma Swan is yet another mystery.

The hem of her dress flutters in the cool night air. The transition from stale close quarters to the outdoors has only intensified the trembling but she pushes on. Regina's eyes scan from person to person and it is not long before she feels the temperature of the air change.

"Was it not Diego Rivera who said that Kandinsky opens a window to look inside the All?"

Regina's mouth twitches, uncertain what form to take. It is the blonde's reaction that makes the decision for her. As she had yet to study Emma this close Regina seizes the moment to do just that. In a _strictly_ professional capacity she is drawn deep into the eyes, green and perfectly flecked with gold. Her smirk only gets wider at Emma's open-mouthed dawdling. The brow Regina raises probably entertains herself more than it does the others.

Emma licks her lips and says something. Now Regina is the one staring openly. A heated debate on Kandinsky ensues, much to her enjoyment. Throughout the night a soft blush rises in her cheeks and her pulse races. Regina can't remember the last time she has enjoyed herself this much. She misses life among young bright minds; they live their lives with a sense of possibility and a 'fuck the system' mentality. It was quite comparable to her early years, before the bubble of college popped and reality set in. Regina can't believe how she had forgotten the rush of artistic rebellion and the importance of contesting ideas.

The only thing better than a good debate is the partner debating with you. Emma proves to be far outside the realm of lazy. Furthermore, she does something extraordinary: she surpasses every one of Regina's expectations. She is fluent in art theory and history, can hold her own against a brutal onslaught of logic, and is as fair an adversary as she is fierce. She is also, to Regina's delight, quite amusing to watch. In conclusion, Emma Swan stands rather pleasant to be around.

However, it never occurs to Regina that her interest in Emma is more personal than professional. In fact, it doesn't really hit her until Emma's hand is raised in a post-victory high five.

Regina hesitates longer than necessary. Her arms are hanging at her sides in disuse and she's simply… frozen. Normally, a display of such juvenile tact would put her off. If there's anything the wealthy benefactor hasn't patience for it is immature frivolities. Yet instead of a petulant flush to her face and a short retort at the ready, the dithering wings of butterflies fill her stomach. A surge of light headedness makes her unsteady on her feet, but those perfect green eyes keep her grounded.

 _Interesting…_

But then Emma's dopey smile is fading and Regina really doesn't want to see it go. At the risk of endorsing the high five improperly (as she hadn't been faced with this kind of social exchange since she was what? Ten-years-old?), Regina throws caution to the wind and rises to the balls of her feet.

 _Why the hell not?_

After her hand meets Emma's in a jubilant little tap something absurd comes from Regina's mouth. She has to clamp a hand over her mouth to stifle the giggle, but based on an ear-to-ear grin the cat's already out of _that_ bag. Regina should be mortified if she isn't staring so desperately at Emma's mouth.

There are certain… _things_ she imagines slipping from between those two pink lips, sighs and curses among them. Regina blinks slowly, feeling the air between them charged with potential, and starts to gravitate towards her.

"Regina! I need your signature on this _right_ away! I have patrons hounding me left and right for a chance to breathe the same air as Quayle and Barnes LLP. Unless you want blood on your nice Persian rug it's peddle to the metal!"

Regina is still hung up on the compromising nature of her fantasy when she's hurried through the patio doors. It doesn't take long to catch her up on the emergency. Pam is jabbering a mile a minute, waving her hands in panic mode, and Regina starts to think her publicist is more neurotic than she is. She manages to steal a glance before Pam's propelling her the other way with two hands to her back. Emma, standing barefoot in the grass, has the most tangled look on her face. An airstrike of guilt attacks Regina at the confusion she caused the woman.

When the deals are closed it is well after midnight. Feeling harassed by the music and stolen from a lovely woman, Regina rubs the film of sweat from her forehead and waits it out. Leaving early will reflect badly upon her, but she is gradually seeing the appeal in tarnishing her own reputation. If it gives her some peace and quiet, let the morning papers and their negative reviews come in.

Her dining room is a storm cloud of cigarette smoke which makes her eyes water and itch. She detects the unmistakable scent of marijuana and simply washes her hands of it by relocating to another room. Someone has brought their guitar in and is crouched in a corner of the study playing a soft lullaby to an audience of no one.

She smiles to the young man sucking the stub of a pencil and whose dreadlocks are tied in a neat ponytail. Regina nods politely for him to continue and his eyes smile back from behind dark shades. He begins a calming tune, fingerpicking at the strings of his battered treasure.

Like a calm ocean tide, Regina feels her consciousness recede from her body. She closes her eyes and surrenders to the gentle current. Her ears listen, but her mind is elsewhere.

He plays her two songs before a proper crowd files in. Regina slips away, leaving behind the Rastafarian musician with a penchant for the Beatles.

The guests have made her living room a dance floor. A mosh pit of sorts has formed, allowing the young and beautiful to grind and hump to their heart's content. Regina would be offended if she actually cared. She had stopped giving a shit what these people do to her home some time ago. The high and intoxicated have a tendency to stop heeding the advice of the person plying them with free booze, especially if that person was Regina Mills, the Woman Who Let's Anything Slide After Midnight.

She spots Pam at the center of the revolution, pursing her lips at some guy and pulling him in for a sultry dance. Of course, the only dance move the publicist has in her repertoire is a dorky boogie closely affiliated to jumping jacks.

 _At least someone is enjoying themselves._

The festivities start to assault the foundation of her sanity and all she wants to do is be rid of it all, the noise, the smoke, the business deals, everything. Or… almost everything. On the way to the staircase Regina pulls along two willing accomplices and proceeds to the quiet upstairs.

When she bought the mansion, five bedrooms seemed a bit excessive. A single woman with no family of her own had no use of the space and did not need the reminder of how alone she felt in its echoing hallways. But she later found that the extra room proved a safe haven for nights like tonight when an escape from society is warranted.

Discretion is of the upmost importance on these occasions, which is why the master bedroom remains locked to all but Regina. A piece of her lives in that room and she is careful with whom it is shared with.

Upon entering the cool, impersonal bedroom, Regina feels a stab of regret. Kamal and Joshua are delightful companions and two rising young artists she can bet her money on, but they seem to lack a special something. She can't put her finger on it. It's not that a woman like her can do better because Regina is nothing if not possessing of a distinguished palate in lovers.

It is rare for the wealthy benefactor to find herself in this position: to want what cannot be hers. And she wants it desperately. But the hard truth remained: her callous behavior and demanding responsibilities likely injured a wondrous new acquaintance. If anyone is undeserving of the harsh realities of Regina's job it is that woman.

 _She will want nothing to do with a bitch like me._

Shaking herself of the ill-fated meeting, Regina bypasses formalities for the main event. They fall into flesh, need, and diversion, secure in the fact that this is fun and not the least bit more than casual. Come morning no one need be hurt.

As with the lone musician who lulled her into a trance, Regina feels her consciousness slip away. Her hands continue to please as does her body, responding considerately and in kind, but her mind is elsewhere. The traitorous thing, once thought to be the foremost expert on reason, sifts through memories, sensations, giddy feelings brought on by a childish gesture.

To distract her of such thoughts, Regina fills her hand with soft black hair and presses the mouth firmly to her breast. She lets out a whimper and threads her other fingers through the hair of the lover behind her. Her core clenches hard around the intrusion as it swells in and out of her. She rolls her hips against him, wetly, feeling the edge loom closer and closer.

It is when her eyes hit the ceiling that Regina is met with the odd sense that she is being watched – and not by her current lovers who continue to lavish their efforts upon her. She lets her head fall limply to the flesh of his shoulder. And then her eyes blink open and latch on to the first thing they see.

A tongue trails down to the apex of her thighs and flicks rhythmically against her clit. Regina feels it go straight to her core and utters a loud moan. Her hips pick up speed, forward against searing, soft lips and back to meet the unrelenting hardness. She surrenders to it all, everything but the piece she saves for that special something the others lack.

The green eyes pigmented with gold burn through her like a force of nature. Regina sees them; she remembers when they danced across her face in the moonlight and how their darkness stoked the hunger of her imagination.

 _Oh, Emma…_

Regina's mouth drops open, parched and tingling with the fantasy of what it would feel like to say her name. She fights to keep her eyes open, to hold her all-consuming gaze with its equal. There are arms around her, sensations running through her, but those eyes have her very soul bound for release.

Arching back, Regina lets out a lustful cry that rallies off the florid walls of the bedroom. Her eyes end up seeing the back of her lids, yet the sparks still go off in the vast emptiness. Exhaustion sees her through as she pants and aches from the unexpected orgasm.

The door creaks open, allowing the light from within to flood out into the hallway. It occurs to Regina that she is the cause for it. Her very hand is clutching the brass door knob while the other is a hair's breadth from pale fingers clawing the white paint of the door jamb. The cool air rushes in with the blonde voyeur and Regina hardly cares that it caresses over the rise and fall of her unclothed breasts.

Convinced that Emma is an apparition, she grabs onto the vision before it stumbles back further. A sigh escapes her lips and a grin threatens to triumph. Finally, the mystery is solved. Emma's presence is confirmed in the solid, clammy hands in hers. She was indeed there as promised, as reverently hoped for against all reasonable sense.

Suddenly, Regina is feeling playful. The shock of warmth this woman's hands offer fills her with giddy content, inspiring her to see whatever this is through to another astonishingly pleasant release.

"We have a visitor, boys."

Kamal and Joshua don't mind. They notice the uninterrupted eye contact between the two women. It's pretty clear from the way Regina locks their hands together that the blonde is her only desire.

"What do you think? Shall we invite her to play?"

They nod with smiles of their own and wonder amusingly when sharing will cease to be optional.

Regina watches with a stifled chuckle as Emma's brows scale up. Beyond further ado, she brings the clothed woman to her, pulling by the belt loops until fanciful lips meet hers. She cups her hands around the angelic face and kisses away the tension. Fingertips draw slowly down the cheeks, trail along a jaw, and collect in exploratory brushes against a neck. Her languid touch elicits shivers so intense Regina can feel them in the kiss, tingling across her lips and tainting her own stability. Regina sways on her feet, moaning softly. It is everything she's thought about all night in one single kiss. Or nearly everything.

This time when her body surges forward no one is there to stop her, not Pam, not those greedy patrons and sponsors, and sure as hell not her work. The sensation of Emma's clothing roughing up against her nude figure sent a bone deep quiver through her body. She could hardly hold in the sound coming from her lips as her body advanced with the help of Joshua from behind. It is as if he encouraged the magnetism between her and Emma.

Her tongue meets Emma's in a heated tete-a-tete, tasting, teasing, and playing together. It's fun and it's breathless and Regina can't seem to keep from rising on her toes. She gathers her balance by threading her fingers through dependable flaxen locks. Still, she's made dizzy by the relentless sucking on her bottom lip, a sensitive area that with but one nip has her core reignited and awash with desire.

Then, their stark variance in dress becomes more noticeable. The woman may be wearing a silk shirt, but compared to what was underneath the thing scratched like sandpaper. Regina wanted it (among other items) _off_.

The kiss ends with an extra nuzzle against pink, parted lips. Regina doesn't have to wonder if the same fever of sparks were a product of her imagination. Once they flutter open, Emma's lovely green eyes mirror the ones basking in return and the truth never looked so good.

 _I can't share her. She deserves better._

"Let us leave these two to their own devices."

The cool, sexless air of the hallway billows around the hem of Regina's robe. She leads Emma away from the cruel world peopled by pretentious frauds and gluttonous thieves-for-hire, as well as the braggarts and the naggers a reluctant, well-to-do woman handles daily. Regina feels a strong need to protect this girl from the criticisms of society. Her own private bedroom seems a fitting solution.

A bang startles Regina into whirling around. Emma's mouth is twisted in a grimace as she frantically goes about righting the walled picture jostled in her wake. She's half limping and half Jedi mind-tricking the frame to stay straight because her shaking hands don't seem to do the trick. It has to be the most adorable thing Regina has ever set eyes upon.

"Are you alright?" she asks, frowning deeply to hide her amusement.

Despite the struggle, Emma flashes an encouraging smile. "Yep."

Taking refuge in the furnished, elegantly decorated quarters, Regina allows the hand to slip from hers. Emma is taking the room in with a cautious and unassuming gaze. Her eyes widen appreciatively at the sight of an overstuffed bookcase. Insecurity creeps in at the woman's scrutiny. Regina isn't willing to admit how many people have been given the opportunity of witnessing this. It isn't just a bedroom, it is her own private world where she can be secure in the fact that the only eyes on it were those watching from the heavens. It is the only place she can draw comfort from. No interviews have taken place here. She has given no speeches, held no business deals, and managed none of her employees from this place. More importantly, not a single casual affair has taken place between the soft sheets of her bed.

A throat bobs over the apple-sized gulp. This is her home and Emma is in it.

Raw desire takes over. The tour is cut short when Emma is heaved back by a pair of insistent hands. Regina inhales what feels like the last breath of sanity she will ever take and proceeds to lock the door at Emma's back.


	3. Chapter 3

Emma shifts her hips for a better angle before pushing forward again, this time with more force. Her thighs are already quivering from exertion, but a few well-placed thrusts are all that is needed to send the body beneath her into fits of pleasure.

Regina pants and cripples the sheets in her grasp, grabbing Emma from behind, but finding no purchase on her sweat slick arms. She keens forward and scrambles for something to ground her. Emma makes a great thrust inside her and Regina gasps out loud, mouth open, eyes shut tight. They both tense, their damp bodies pressed together before convulsing as one to the wave of euphoria traveling through them. They drop boneless to the bed, Emma atop Regina, fingers intertwined and gasping for breath.

The locked master bedroom contained all the memories of their night including the pleading echoes, the banquet of tender flesh and the heady aroma of sex. Despite one's fear of intrusion, many assurances had been made by the other in a series of tingling whispers and squeezes from a hand. A single kiss on an inner wrist and all doubts were dispelled.

Emma doesn't yet remove the attachment between her legs, nor does she withdraw the length still buried within Regina. She's content to grind lightly into it so as to prolong the satisfying twinges, and based on the soft whimpers into a pillow she's not the only one.

Blonde hair is a sticky, matted mess on her cheek and neck, but Emma can't find it in herself to care. She smiles into glowing skin of Regina's back which still rises and falls fitfully and wonders how her night ended up so unexpectedly awesome.

* * *

The lock clicks soundly behind Emma. Her shoulder blades bite into the hard wood and it occurs to her that there is no way out. Behind her lies a locked door, impenetrable to the entire world, and in front waits the beautiful woman of her fantasy. Regina, her nakedness covered by the knee-high silk robe, now offered something entirely singular from the last two lovers she wooed. The intent in those eyes alone fulfilled half of Emma's daydream right there.

"Are we alone?" Emma asks when she found her voice, albeit dry. Her reservations are warranted. After all, she was guilty of spying not long ago. "I mean, you're publicist isn't going to take you away from me again, is she?" She winces at the way it sounded. She's seen _Wedding Crashers_ and has no plans to meet the criteria of a Stage Five Clinger. Openly insecure is not the ideal way of selling it, but sometimes nerves got the best of her tongue.

"I can assure you," Regina, planting her hands to the door close enough for their wrists to brush, leans in close enough for their sighs to mingle, "we will not be disturbed tonight. This is my private bedroom. No one would dare enter."

Regina has already fixed her appreciation to Emma's lips. Her chin is tilted up in anticipation and she waits as if in some Victorian suitability – perhaps consent to courtship. The only sign of impatience shows in the scraping of polished nails to the door.

Emma's swallows under the intensity. The questioning gaze is so smoldering she feels her skin smoke and crackle to flames. While the idea that she has Regina all to herself consumes her determination, it occurs to her that she may have it the other way around. Attested by the possessive hands gripped on either side of her, it is _Regina_ who has Emma all to herself.

The temperature between her legs spikes and she feels heat emanate deep in her belly. She doesn't have the heart to ask what happened between Regina's snubbing her in the backyard and this torrid invitation. There's really no reason to turn her back on this opportunity.

"Good," she says and seals her fate by closing the space between their mouths.

And it is just as electric as before. Emma brings up her hands to steady the face against hers, grinding the feverish lips in a searing kiss.

Then Regina inhales sharply and pushes the woman back by the shoulders. "Are you intoxicated?"

"No," Emma insists quickly.

"Good." The tip of her tongue peeks out to wet her upper lip. She sees Emma follow its trail and a growl stirs from her depths. "I wouldn't want to take advantage of you."

The glint in both their eyes proves that neither will have minded that particular scenario. Regina, in fact, has similar plans if this little affair runs smoothly. In the meantime, she's content to explore the surface pleasures. However, Regina is far from prudish. Innocence and simplicity were two things never meant for the bedroom – or at least not for Regina's bedroom. She just hopes her opinions are shared.

"Are you familiar with this apparatus?"

Emma's state of balance changes like whiplash. One minute she's pressed up nicely against the door and the next Regina is hanging some piece of equipment before her eyes. The black leather harness sways in time with Emma's figure. She swallows dryly, begging for memory to supply her with the word to describe this thing. Yes, she knows what it is, but those damn nerves and the way the strap hangs from that single index finger has stalled all brain processes. Just the way those lips wrap around the word… _apparatus_ … causes Emma's knees to wobble.

"Not… lately."

"Well, I'm sure it will come back to you," Regina says with quirk of her brow and a sly, knowing smirk.

"Definitely," Emma mumbles, staring, "yeah."

Minutes later she's still shaking like a leaf. There aren't even any clothes left hanging on her to hide the shame. A part of Emma wants to shrivel up and conceal herself behind the curtain of blonde hair – idea courtesy of Cousin Itt (and boy, did he have that guise down). Another part of her knows the anxiety is baseless. Emma knows how to please a woman without the use of her own facilities and has engaged in some rather adventurous activities in the past. It's just… the pressure to please this particular woman ranges far higher than she anticipated. And she's pretty darn sure she means that in a capacity beyond the professional.

But then there Regina is with a steadying hand on her hip and kisses to her jaw. It's enough to reassemble her brain cells and then vaporize them all over again. Thankfully, Emma is awarded with a helping hand.

"It's not too tight, is it?"

"Well," a breathy chuckle slips, "if it's not then that would defeat the whole purpose."

"I suppose. I just don't want you to be uncomfortable," Regina's fingers withdrew from the buckles as she finishes smoothly, "unnecessarily."

"I'm not uncomfortable," Emma says, and, as if by magic, she really feels the truth of it. "You don't make me uncomfortable."

A promise of trust passes between them, which seems a bit premature seeing as they are strangers to one another. They may only have met a few hours ago, but unfamiliarity is not what they feel. Emma and Regina have already laughed together and accepted the timid touch of friendship. In the space of a debate they shared common opinions and strategies while simultaneously grinding their opponents to a paste. They are secure in the equal respect each has for the other.

The admission is out there just hanging stagnant in the air while Emma waits, nibbling at her lips.

Regina is staring, the air suspended in her lungs. Before she even realizes what she's doing her body is flush against Emma's and her hands her finding purchase in loose curls. Her lips crash against the squeaking mouth and kiss the shock into submission. She pours her desire into Emma, the desire she felt the moment her eyes latched on those swinging hips.

A moan escapes from Emma and is caught by Regina. Their mouths open and meet in a hot kiss with tongue and teeth and promise. Rolling passion ignites from their pressing bodies and it is the first time Emma notices the weight of the protruding length hanging between them. Emma's mouth drops open in a startled groan as Regina presses her thigh in, brushing against the silicone. The base of the device rubs deliciously against Emma's clit as she senses her own wetness build and coat over it. Her eyes roll back as Regina continues to grind against her.

Hardened nipples brush roughly through the robe and Emma has to tear the ends of it apart to feel the full effect. And is it ever a glorious effect. Regina's breasts are heavily rounded and peaked by dusky nipples Emma can't stop her lips from casing around. Seeing them from behind a half-closed door is one thing, but savoring them by her own mouth is a whole different ballgame.

A low moan rumbles from Regina's throat. She digs the pads of her fingers into Emma's scalp to encourage her. The combination of scrapping teeth and lips so inquisitive already succeeds in sending vibrations through her. The hot mouth on her breast returns with a lapping assault that has her rising to her toes in shivering ecstasy. She then reasserts the bare length of her thigh into the attachment between them, pressing hard and wanton against it in plea for Emma to use it properly inside her.

Emma's moans are muffled against the flesh of a lavished breast, which leaves Regina keen against her further. They separate, gasping, eyes wide and penetrating thoroughly. Deciding to exert some authority, Emma backs the woman till she's bouncing flat against the bed. Before joining her, she pauses and allows herself to be thunderstruck by Regina's vulnerability. Swallowing down the lump in her throat, Emma tries with all her might to dampen the onslaught of arousal the woman incites.

Her knees sink deep into the plush eggshell-hued duvet of the bed, but Emma holds off on any further advance.

"I'm Emma by the way. It's probably customary to introduce one's self before…" her gaze drops to the firmly attached _apparatus_ , "well, _this_."

"Thank you," Regina smiles meaningfully and then tilts her head, "but I already know your name."

Emma's knees glide forward as she attempts to straddle the immaculate legs. "You do?"

Regina props herself up on her elbows to meet the challenge. "This is my home. You don't think I run a background check on every guest?"

Emma's eyes widen.

"Not to worry, dear. I am not that paranoid. I just asked around."

"Oh," she sighs, relieved that her sordid past hasn't come out prematurely.

Sensing the tension, Regina rises silently and reaches out to the woman, unsure what it is she wants to do. A hand ends up against Emma's chest and plants flat between the breasts which heave and quiver to touch. Raised flesh rouses in her wake as she draws her palm up inch by thoughtful inch. Her fingers end fluttering along the pronounced collar bone and glide up to encase around a cheek.

Emma is breathing hard. If she can see from out her hooded eyes she would be graced with the timid affection blooming on Regina's face.

The anticipation in Emma's expression fills her cheeks with a bashful heat. It's a foreign feeling, a prickling pressure on her chest she can't claim from memory much less slap a name to. No one has wanted her this much before and has exercised such restraint. In an otherwise hastened affair, Regina is more likely to employ the power she is reputed for as a wealthy celebrity in turning the tables. Her past is filled with passionate one night stands, but they always end the same. They don't meet her expectations, don't read her body, and many will fulfill their own needs before hers. And, sometimes, people get rough and greedy and end up with a face full of mace.

Seeing the value in Emma's patience, Regina leans forward to nuzzle shyly at the cheek before meeting her eye line. "I'm Regina," she murmurs, instantly taken with verdant green irises. That light-headed feeling returns and it's as if a spell has been cast on her.

The corner of Emma's mouth twitches up. "I know."

"Oh, do you now?"

"I asked around." She shrugs her shoulder, eyes narrowing friskily.

Their laughter is muffled by kisses and it isn't long before they resume the occasion at hand. Emma tumbles forward with newfound enthusiasm just as Regina pulls her down further. They lay flush against each other, touchable smooth limbs, rolling hips, and pebbled, sensitive nipples. The last to meet are their lips which find one another in a blind kiss.

A rhythm is difficult to grasp. Like pinning down a cloud, Emma and Regina grind uninhibited and indifferent to the duvet's once pristine state. They grasp with the tools of god's design, provoking a breathy sigh here and a choked cry there. Their lips suck and tease at the vulnerable areas, hard enough to mark, deep enough to remember. Hips roll and buck wetly in time but fail to discover that instant connection. They create a friction intense enough to bring a burnished radiance to their skin, a heat so blazing it could embrace them through the toughest winter.

Regina grabs out, hands fumbling to the flexing arms planted on either side of her. Her grip clenches every time Emma bears down on her. The intrusion is not unexpected, though initial contact is sometimes a bit awkward. Soon, her inner walls adjust for a rush of sensations, all spine-tingling and worthy of moaning openly to.

Over the rush of blood pumping in her ears, Emma picks up the sensual ringing of her name and nearly comes undone. At one time she feared disappointing this woman (or hurting her, worst of all), but as soon as a pair of legs clamp around her hips – olive-bronze stark against pale skin – and the digging of nails into her backside, Emma feels those reservations breeze away. She's pulled down deeper, harder with the instruction of pressing calves. Regina's expressive moans, too, are an acceptable means of assistance.

Emma grinds her pussy in a wanton, circular motion that sends shockwaves through Regina who is crying out into a pillow. Emma moans loudly and if she were fully conscious of the act it would have sounded foreign to her ears. Instead, the name of her lover falls effortlessly from her lips as she puts her everything into making Regina come around her thrusts. Breathless above the near seizing woman, she smiles.

They found their rhythm.

* * *

It's clear whatever world that exists outside the master bedroom has quieted. The champagne has dried up, the canapés devoured, and every last dish scraped clean. The music peters out, the partygoers have gone home, and Pam Taggert leaves the Mill mansion as immaculate as the day she came upon it.

But there is life inside the one bedroom on the second floor, vibrant life wholly unconcerned with time, money, and stark differences in social class. Sometimes it is quiet within these four walls, other times it is filled with boisterous laughter, and, more often than not, a succession of passionate expletives. The strap-on lies forgotten on the floor, its silicon length still glistening in the soft light of the bedside lamp.

"Freddy."

"As in Freddy Krueger?" Regina's eyebrows arch gradually with every word.

"Wow," Emma bursts out, chuckling against her shoulder.

"What? Did I guess correctly?"

"No," Emma nudges the woman lightly in the ribs, "I'm just amazed you know who Freddy Krueger is."

The prod is returned with a slap. Regina tsks, rolling her eyes when Emma exaggerates her discomfort. "I'm not a shut in. I occasionally join the ranks of theater-attending society."

"Really?" A hand is covered over her non-bruised right eye. "I just assumed you looked down on all us heathens from your high castle." Her wiggling eyebrows support the accusation.

"You are not a heathen, despite the wicked manner in which you used that apparatus."

And there it is again… _apparatus_. The choice of word alone made the desire run between Emma's legs.

"Don't forget it," Emma husks back. She then lays her open mouth and all other talents in her possession on Regina and the ticklish parts she'd come across in their time together.

Sometime later, voices raw and fingers thoroughly slick, they untangle their limbs and part from their thrumming bodies. Lying shoulder to shoulder, each is content just to observe the rise and fall of the other's chest, tease a palm with the tips of their fingers, and occasionally blink in time with their mirrored gazes.

Emma breaks the silence with a meager, "I lied."

"What?"

"My cat's name isn't Freddy. It's Oscar."

Regina watches the face scrunch in anticipation for backlash. Instead of meeting the quota of slaps she has in mind for the woman, Regina just laughs. "Oscar?" This is all too outrageous for her sane ears. Her head lolls back on the pillow as her amusement bellows throughout the room.

"I don't know," mumbles Emma, eyes rolling away. "He just looked like an Oscar."

"I'm more concerned by the fact that you felt the need to falsify your cat's name."

"Well, I was thinking of changing it. I wanted to try some potentials out loud."

"So you lied about your cat's real identity," Regina lists off the fingers of her hand, "implied that you didn't know how to operate a strap-on…"

Emma shot up into a sitting position and exclaims with an indignant pout, "Did _not!"_

"… Blathered on and on to those young artists about art theory and Kandinsky when you haven't taken a single university-level course," she deliberately overlooked Emma's sputtering retort to hit home a conclusion. "Is 'Emma' even your real name?"

"You know it is," Emma replies seriously, cocking her head. "And I did go to college – just not for the full four years."

"Community college?"

Emma's finger went out to wag at the beautiful smile. "I'm going to take it as a compliment that 'dropping out' wasn't your first guess. And, yes, I went to community college. I had zero opportunity to attend a hot shot liberal arts school."

"I work with plenty of artist who graduated from community colleges. Some do not even have a formal education."

The duvet bunching up from Emma's rousing is a wrinkled pool around their legs. She drops her gaze on the fidgeting hands which thread the linen through her fingers. It feels like the kind of luxury paid for in five star hotels. The next thing Emma knows, she's thinking about money, money, money, and how she never had enough of it. Not much money, or GPA, or after-school programs afforded to kids with active parents and guardians. Not enough of anything to fulfill her artistic endeavors.

 _What the hell does this woman see in me?_

"And you just give them your time and your money and your resources for nothing?" Emma's eyes narrow and juts her chin up. "What's the catch?"

"They have to sleep with me."

Emma let out an undignified snort and fell stomach first beside her. "You're a really awful liar, you know that?"

Jostled by the childlike tumble, Regina chuckles and throws her pillow down in an arch. An 'ouch' sounds from under the down-filled cushion.

"You sleep with some of them, though," comes softly out from under the pillow. It's more of a statement then a question.

Regina is seized by a fear of loneliness. She feels her lips vibrate around the vague hum before she strokes the backs of her fingers against the inside forearm sprawled next to her. It feels soft and vulnerable under her tips. It is untouched by the harsh rays of sunlight, but spoiled rotten through the countless pecks of her lips.

"Sometimes," she replies softly.

A tousled blonde head turns and green eyes meet hers. Emma just smiles like everything is okay, but Regina feels the resentment of all those meaningless affairs. It's not judgment she sees in those eyes. It's something far more complex and suggesting of the yesterdays neither of them have a desire to return to.

She then diverts her gaze so she can take a breath.

Some desires are not so easily sated. None of those affairs stand any different from what she is doing with this woman. No difference except the one detail glaring at her from every corner.

The bedroom is dimly aglow and Regina takes it in with tremulous consideration.

"You know," she says because undue expectation begs for a change in topic, "I read somewhere that great sex is an indication of how well you argue with your partner."

Emma's brows clinch together. She props herself up with an elbow and says, "We weren't exactly arguing though. At least, that's not the way I took it. I'd say it was more like… friendly banter."

"We argued together as allies. That little debate we had outdoors earlier, remember?"

"You're splitting hairs."

"Are you saying the sex wasn't great?"

"Ah," Emma's chuckle sounds choked, "that would be a fucking 'N' 'O'"

"Wait," the other woman said flatly, sitting up against the headboard. This has certainly snagged her attention. "'No' as in it wasn't or 'no' as in it was?"

Emma deadpans, chin turned down and brows surging. "Okay, now you've confused me."

"I thought it was good," Regina intones just as Emma insists, "I thought it was great."

They share piercing stares, waiting with baited breath before it's settled together: "Great."

It's superb timing and in that moment they feel strangely in sync. A significant power seems to bind them together in this time and place, but it feels a bit too overwhelming to bring up. They don't dare ruin the moment with expectations or promises. They don't exchange phone numbers or get a schedule down for when they will see each other again. It's just an above average night for these two and neither wants to make anything more of it than necessary.

"Do you want to know what I thought when I first met you?" asks Regina with an air of mystery.

"Mm, I don't know. Is this a trap?"

"I thought, 'Hm, I wonder how she would look with a strap-on.'"

"You're kidding."

"I thought I couldn't lie?"

"No," Emma's hand slices the air matter-of-factly, "You can lie. You're just incapable of making it sound legit."

"I'm an illegitimate liar?" Regina guffaws. "Well, I think those cancel each other out, dear, if I'm not mistaken."

"You give me a headache, woman! Back to point!"

"Actually, the idea came to me before we ever spoke. I was standing in the living room and talking to some of my guests when I saw a tall, blonde wearing an atrocious green top. She had the most sensual walk I had ever seen and the image of a leather harness on that waist just would not leave me."

"Oh my god," moans Emma from beneath her hands, "please shut up."

Regina lunges till her cooing lips met the bright red ear. "Aw, am I embarrassing you?"

"I can't tell if I'm mortified or turned on. Give me a minute."

"Yes, well, can you hurry it up?" Regina purrs, marring Emma's skin with her nails. "There are things…" she crests the hand over the trembling swell of a backside, "I have yet…" it then slips around to claim the rightfully slick center between taught legs, "to try with you," she ends with a flick of her tongue along the earlobe. Regina just has to chuckle because Emma's already spread and waiting for her with strained whimpers.

Near panting, Emma finds the strength to raise her head. "And might these ideas be based on first impressions?"

"Oh," Regina moans throatily against the shell of Emma's ear, "no. What I have in store for you is far bolder and more compromising than that…" a giggle has to be stifled because she knows just how much Emma's pussy delights in the word, " _apparatus_."

And she has Emma convulsing in back arching orgasms for the rest of the morning. No doubt, they are interspersed by returned payment which is just as earth-shattering as Regina remembers. They sleep little, but the few hours they do manage to snag are spent dreaming not far from one another, arm clutched round a waist here, a nose nestled to the crook of a neck there.

When the world wakes and prepares for the work day, so does Emma Swan. After rubbing the crust from her eyes she changes and slips from the best room she's ever had the pleasure of sleeping (and fucking) in. Regina, having showered, changed, and been caffeinated, offers the woman a shy smile and a complimentary cup of coffee which is slurped up with half-closed eyes.

They part with no promises save the one that keeps two hearts warm.


	4. Chapter 4

It isn't the underbelly, but the streets don't exactly gleam with the condensation from iced coffee cups. Just 30 blocks from the nearest coffeehouse chain the town isn't bustling either. If it is a sin to rebel against the over-commercialized, political correctness of society, then finding oneself in this part of slum city should send one straight to hell.

 _But not before getting mugged in plain sight._

It never escaped Regina's notice that Emma Swan totted herself as a nonconformist, but to dig her heels here of all places? Taking a stand in a personal belief ranked high in Regina's book, but this is pushing it. She surmises that perhaps there is no choice in the matter. There remain few livable options to a struggling, debt swimming artist these days. At least this neighborhood has a decent trash collecting policy.

The dismal landmark is a pit of creativity which cares little for gallery exhibitions or the sought after slot in a renowned publication of contemporary art. The voices that echo here are heard only by those of which they belong to. A generation of artists who really don't give a damn how they smell to the general population.

According to the abundant illicit displays sprayed on brick walls, the town can hardly be sanctified as artless. In fact, the blocks this town encompasses symbolize the same underground that Regina's world so contemptuously rejects. The locals seem to hang tight to their individualistic hole-in-the-wall businesses whist simultaneously casting off the trends, the high rises, the whorish credit card methodology.

Flat wooden fences and alley walls are decorated with paintings and murals as well as original tag lines and snippets of philosophy, poetry, and absolute certainties. Among them: " _Innovation is the cultural backbeat to the human condition."_ An inconsequential line that tugs at the beatnik's heartstrings.

Then, grounding to a halt before a block wide, white spray-painted wall, Regina is caught by something.

 _"Where you stand is where we began."_

And it occurs to Regina that standing there, reading this message she is contributing to a growing number of people who believe in the expression of free art – that all creativity is meant to be shared, not exploited or monopolized by the famous and fortunate. Where is it written that we need to pay to keep art alive?

Or so the saying goes.

Dagger-edged heels jump from crack to crack in their strict navigation of the pavement. There's no avoiding them, the imperfections, because if she looks close enough their supposedly aimless lines and curves create a dreamlike arrangement similar to the clouds in sky. And who wants to avoid walking on clouds? If they're there, it's a wonder to feel that sense of imagination and luminous perspective beneath your feet.

It's not Regina's premier tour through this sliver of the city. She's had to visit many an atrocious studio in her goal to set blooming young talent on their path to success. Despite the seemingly worthless quality of the neighborhood, a person from these streets could enact more change in the world than someone of Regina's privilege. She has seen it happen. She has had a hand in turning the impossible into certainty.

And that is why she waits at the nicked and paint crackling door to Emma's home. She is there for purely professional reasons. Nothing more, nothing less.

A fist poises to knock, but hesitates at the last minute. Regina stares vaguely at the tarnished gold plate that numbers its occupant. She has brought nothing but her purse. Should she have taken something with her? She forgets. After dozens of these house calls to critique whether or not an artists has "the stuff" Regina can't recall for the life of her what she normally brings in these cases.

But this is no normal case. It has been weeks since Regina and Emma parted from their passionate one night affair. They hadn't seen or spoken to each other and why should they? Neither seemed keen on turning intimacy into a serious routine. And although their worlds revolved around contemporary art, they were worlds of vastly different rank.

The hard-headed part of Regina demanded a justification for how rashly she acted that night. She dragged a stranger into her sacred, private bedroom (where no one has been invited) and subsequently allowed that stranger to have her way with her (and vice versa, lest she forgets). Some time later a motivation for such foolishness was scrounged up. This fascination with Emma Swan primarily encompassed her artistic talent (among other things). Discovering and helping along this nonexistent career of hers remains the bold printed headline of Regina's excuse.

Pam was directly sent on a mission to investigate Miss Swan's credentials and other necessary data which included contact information. It has occurred to Regina that Emma might not remember her when opportunity came knocking. The 'some time' since they had last laid eyes on each other totaled four weeks and four weeks is an unusually long time to dawdle, especially for a woman who takes her job seriously.

The question remains: will Emma Swan prove to be a someone or a no one? Regina's unwillingness to let this opportunity go pestered her day and night since that damned gala. The common sense of it didn't match/compare to the thudding in her chest as she stood frozen on the woman's threshold.

The meager three knocks sound like a jackhammer in Regina's ears. She winces and inches back her loosely fisted hand.

"Oh…"

Regina jumps, having not noticed the door has been answered. Her eyes widen at the woman while her hand tightens around the handles of her purse. She shrugs the bag further on her shoulder and copes with the air. Her eyes flutter as she inhales deeply.

"Oh," Emma says again like she has to prove to herself that her voice still works. "Hey… Regina." Her features scrunch at how odd the name sounds from her mouth. It's been four weeks, she thinks. It's like a mantra going round and round her head like a nightmare carousel. It's been four weeks. "I, ah, wasn't expecting you."

The knob rattles in its age-crusted socket. Emma's sweaty hand brawls it in various grips to find which one works best. A severe grappling of all five fingers manages to make the cut in supporting her upright.

"No, of course not. I didn't mean to disturb you," Regina says as she glances at the variegated splattering on a tank and shorts. The company of bare feet barely throws her off as this is not the first time Emma has gone shoe-less in her presence. "You are painting." Her voice rose with scarcely concealed curiosity.

"Trying to."

"I apologize… for intruding. I –"

"No," Emma cuts in quickly, "it's not you. I just haven't been inspired as of late. All the colors seem to be coming out in various shades of grey. You know what I mean?"

"No color, no life."

"No color, no life." Emma nods sullenly and adds, "No paintings, no income, no place to call home." She frowns then. "Oh, I hope that didn't seem as tragic as it sounded."

Smiling, Regina cocks her head. "No pity, just understanding." Her eyebrows surge expectantly. "I'd like to help. It's my reason for showing up here."

"Unexpectedly," Emma interprets. She then smirks and throws in cheekily, "But welcomed."

"Thank you." Regina bows her head as she follows the flourishing hand of invitation.

"Hey, _I_ should be thanking _you_ ," Emma says, shutting the door blindly behind them. "At first I thought I'd never see you again. I mean… I didn't think I'd be hearing from you… about my work – my _paintings_."

Eventually the rambling is cut off with a loud cough and a mental head slap Regina is sure she can hear. She turns her head to keep her amusement from prying eyes. The girl with the flaxen hair is a quick wit, pretty, and entirely charismatic in a way that keeps it hard for Regina to wipe the grin off her face.

She could still taste Emma in her mouth and feel her on her skin like she lives there. It's an all-too veritable sense memory, the kind that stays with you like pine needles and hot cocoa from a childhood Christmas or the last taste of your favorite aunt's pie before her passing. Those are the things you miss to the point of shedding tears. Regina rarely cries, but she does feel the absence of something great. No more than a few minutes ago she strut along the sidewalk of the street associated with Emma's neighborhood and swore up and down to herself that the Rolling Stones' "Miss You" was not playing in her head on an endless loop – Or now as Regina tries in vain to wipe the dreamy look across her face.

"So…"

Regina blinks, picking her jaw from where it dropped to the floor. "The paintings," she gathers. "Yes."

Emma laugh is musical and it actually manages to echo in the small studio apartment. She turns to lead her guest over to a corner where her workstation takes up the majority of the place. Canvases are scattered and leaning against the wall in various layers. She riffles through them with delicate hands, biting her lip in search for the appropriate series to impress Regina.

While the artist mumbles various "yays" and "nays" to herself, Regina waits in total rapture of the premier attribute that first caught her eye: Emma's ass. It takes a moment for her to realize what she's doing before she's inhaling sharply through her nose and taking pains to divert her gaze. The apartment isn't as seductive as the previous view, but it manages to level her heart rate.

Something soft and furry caresses the skin above her leather heel and Regina is startled into a squeal. The mystery is identified as an ash gray cat which slinks past her Gucci stilettos without as much as an "excuse me."

Her hand draws from her chest as it settles from the jolt of surprise. "This must be Oscar?" she asks.

Emma chuckles from her corner. "For now."

"Still undecided on his name? I actually think Freddy suits him better. The way he's looking at me now I'd think he is planning my gruesome demise."

"What?" Blonde locks sway with a turning head which follows where the woman is raising a brow to. She interprets her pet's glare with a roll of her eyes and offers Regina a reassuring smile. "Oh, that's just how he looks at everyone. Oscar wouldn't hurt a fly – maybe a rat, but nothing bigger than that. We've been together for three years and I've yet to be clawed to death in my dreams. I can vouch for him."

"If you insist," Regina settles, an unconvincing eye trailing after the little monster.

Emma moves from one end of the corner to the other, shuffling pieces around like they're a part of a jigsaw. "Okay…" she sighs, scratching an itch on her shoulder as the line of artwork presents before her. She hears the click of heels shifting on the wood floor behind her but continues to block Regna's view. It's all by design, of course. She wants to make it perfect before the big reveal. "Okay, so I've got a few samples here. I've included a few in-progress ones, too. I'm not really sure how this goes – if you want me to explain each piece or just kind of let you soak it up without distraction. Um, I should probably tell you I don't normally like conveying the themes or why I paint what I paint. I generally leave it to my art to speak for itself. If that's a problem for you... you know, we can work through that. Otherwise, you have complete freedom to look as long as you like. So I'm just gonna… I'll be over there." She points to the kitchen and makes a bee-line there.

It seems like a great opportunity to keep herself busy, so Emma dives for the first thing she sees: dish soap. Emma isn't much of a cleaner, as evidenced by the dirty dishes piling in her sink, but far be it from her to make a bad impression on the woman who's evaluating her. If she misses out on a chance of a lifetime because of a messy lifestyle it just might be the end of Emma Swan's Career before it even becomes Emma Swan's Career. Her last foster family won't let her live that one down until an onslaught of "told you so's" are slung forth.

The kitchen is not far, but from where Emma stands the only thing visible is the back of Regina's head. Elbows deep in dirty water, she leans back and forward to catch some sign from the woman's body language. Her attention is so spent on Regina's opinion that she doesn't realize what her hands are doing (or not doing). One of the plates, marred by three day old mozzarella cheese, slips from her anxious fingers and clatters in amongst its baked on, caked on friends. The sound rings out through the apartment as Emma fumbles for it, turning an apologetic smile on for the startled brunette.

When the plateware is sparkling Regina is still evaluating. It's been over ten minutes, more than enough time to come away with a sound conclusion. Emma knows all too well how critics like to study art with a bearing similar to statues. Like the works they view they are silent and brooding. Yet even the manner with which Regina takes in Emma's paintings leaves the artist in question a bit on edge.

Regina's silence and unmoving posture begins to worry Emma, so she creeps up from behind, careful to mind the known creaks in the floorboards. When she stops there is but a pace between them. Emma's eyes drop from her paintings and fall, inevitably, on the delicate curve of Regina's neck. She remembers things about that neck and all the little places around it which have been graced by the touch of her lips. Her hand aches to pull back the curtain of hair so her mouth can return pleasure to the column of olive-toned flesh which encouraged so vividly in her memory with a tremor of moans.

After four long weeks, Emma's lips are dry and cracked. She quenches them with the tip of her tongue, living the memory of how Regina last tasted.

Before Emma can retreat her presence is found out by the pair of brown eyes made damp with unshed tears. Regina has turned round during Emma's glorifying study and has met the darkened green eyes with an unreadable stare.

"Are you alright?" Emma asks around the heart lodged in her throat.

She can't interpret the stream of tears, fearing the worst of what they suggest. She swallows against the lump, nearly gagging despite herself. This is it, she thinks. It's taken her years to get here and this is how it's going to end: with tears and a "sorry I wasted your time." Emma was never good at schooling her features and this time is no exception, because the way Regina is looking at her can only mean one outcome. Emma stares blankly, dumbstruck and crestfallen that her work really is complete shit.

Overwhelmed by the flood of emotions, Regina plunges forth and clashes her mouth against Emma's. It's a hard kiss that would have knocked Emma on her ass if it wasn't for the arm cinched round her waist. It doesn't quite convey what Regina feels because she hardly recognizes her own actions. It's indescribable, this rush of emotions engulfing her. To think it through would take too much effort, like swimming in a current, arms and legs thrashing in order to keep her precious head above the ripples.

They're tongues meet in desperate reunion regardless of the purpose for which it must be done. Neither is sold on a why. Regina can't govern anything but the heat and raw need she lends to their kiss. Her arm wraps around Emma's waist as strong and protective as the hand which slides through golden strands to cradle and urge the head forward.

And Emma… it takes a while but the meaning in the kiss doesn't occur to her until later when they're in her bed and she's coming hard against Regina's open mouth. It crashes into her like her hand slams to the headboard in a resounding slap: her work isn't the complete load of horse shit she thought it might be perceived as. If the manner in which Regina is skidding a tongue through her sex and palming her breasts, Emma's paintings might just be the most impressive thing she's ever laid eyes on.

Emma's eyes slam shut as she cries out through her orgasm. She's overwhelmed – by unexpected luck, by a possibly successful career she's dreamt about since childhood. Most overwhelming above all is Regina, her svelte, glowing body covering hers, and the way she delivers final judgment in a kiss and so, so much more. And now – by the token of affection Emma receives in the soft eye contact; a thumb feathering over the tear patterned cheek; the timid, proud smile hovering over hers.

Emma has never known nor cared what people thought of her work. Not until her eyes fell on that beautiful woman in red from across a room.

* * *

The mid-day sun filters through aluminum crinkled blinds. Emma is lying sprawled out on the bed, an arm dangling over the edge and her head wedged between two pillows. She sleeps on a disaster area, sheets rumpled and twisted, but she doesn't care much. It's nice to feel the warmth of the day on her skin and not worry about decorum. Whatever isn't covered by the near torn sheet is naked and made glowing by the rapt attention it has received.

When she does stir from rest it occurs to her why there's so much room to spread out. The knuckle of her fist rubs the sleepiness from her eyes before she blinks them wide.

"Hey…" she mutters resentfully. Her brows knit in a full on pout as she does not see the fairness in this visual at all.

Emma wonders why Regina left her bed. Someone still needs to explain their behavior, hopefully using a mouth filled with words although Emma knows pleasure in the alternative. They have a lot of catching up to do and a few rolls in the sack aren't going to cut it. Emma is a realist not a masochist.

A throaty moan escapes as Emma takes pains to rise from the plush comfort of her bed. The sound reaches the ears of another who doesn't show a sign of Emma's rousing. Regina is sitting on a couch, legs curled under her, and an elbow perched on the back of the couch so her palm can support her head. She is staring, fixedly, at the paintings. Just how long she's been like that Emma can't guess and from the dazed look she's witnessing neither does Regina.

Skeptical of such overt brooding, Emma throws on clothes which were unceremoniously torn off not long ago and drops on the couch beside the woman.

"You have a gift, Emma."

Emma, who fails to catch a single glance during the confession, chuckles to herself. A single thumb scratches her brow as she stares at an indiscriminate spot of her couch. "You know… we already slept together," she says pointedly, " _twice_. You don't have to continue with flattery."

A scowl mars Regina's once contemplative face. "What? I would never…"

Emma tips her head and raises a brow like Regina knows exactly what that means.

"Okay," Regina mutters under her breath, casting a look elsewhere "maybe I would." But then her intense stare returns and her frown deepens further. Her arm drops from the back of the couch so she can turn and address Emma directly. "But I'm serious. You possess a gift I have never seen in any one of my artists. They are…" At a loss for the right word she turns back to the canvases for inspiration because from day one Emma has jumpstarted this creative force in Regina she can't be sure she wants to dampen. "They are _magnificent_. I don't understand how these paintings can be sitting here collecting dust while there are patrons out there who will pay top dollar for just one. Emma…" She shakes her head, utterly disbelieving it herself even as it rings true to her ears. "You. Are. Gifted."

"Am I?"

"Have you not heard a word I've said? This is no time for wisecracks!"

"I just didn't think –"

"You're absolutely right," Regina snaps, rising from the couch and bearing over Emma with a touch of menace. "You don't think. But that's what makes you the artist you are today. You don't think – you paint. You let your hands do the talking. They feel the colors and the emotions. They bring life to dull white space. You paint like the brushes are an extension of your hands. And after all this time you come upon an opportunity to make your work known…" her eyes narrow then and she creeps her head forward to deliver, "… and you think _now_ is the time to take the modest path?!"

Emma inches back, expression as wide as if she were inhaling steam from a fire-breathing dragon. At the moment, she's debating between fight or flight because she's pretty sure she's never seen Regina (or anybody) get this angry over a few paintings. And all she can muster is a vague, "Um..."

"This is not a game, Emma. Your career is at stake! Your _life_ is at stake!"

"Can you please stop yelling at me?"

Regina blinks at the way Emma is shrinking into the couch and sinking enough to be consumed between the cushions. She shakes her head a bit at her fumbling grip on her emotions. This never happens to her. An upsurge of passion usually translates to some as anger and she has been mindful in the past to keep it in check. But there is something about how oblivious this woman is to her own talent that boils the blood under Regina's very skin.

One by one each finger uncurls from the two fists at her sides. She hardly remembers forming the lethal clubs in her furious state. Regina's temper diminishes before the flicker of distress in green eyes and soon the flush to her cheeks recedes.

"How can you be so indifferent?" she asks, more disciplined though still with eyes aflame

"I don't mean to be. I just never knew."

Regina's mouth drops open in a silent gasp. Her brows knit together and she certainly feels the pain of concern color her face. She returns to the couch albeit nearer to a pale stricken Emma. "How can you not know?" Her tone is barely audible for fear the answer is too awful to put to words. She watches the flicker of emotions that pass over Emma, trying and failing to interpret each one.

Emma's shoulders grow into a shrug. "No one told me."

"Ever? Regina gawks openly.

The fiddling of fingers to the tattered edge of her shorts is answer enough. Emma is consumed by the method of smoothing the frays down. She'd rather be reminded of how cheap her taste in clothing is than answer Regina's question. Based on the rigorous eye contact flitting over her, Emma knows that Regina is considering whether to venture down a total stranger's nightmare memory lane.

Emma is growing more anxious for activity so while her guest is ruminating she decides to roll a joint. It keeps her hands busy and her poor shorts free from tyranny. However, it does little to quiet her mind.

"My last foster home was one I spent the most time with. Of course by the time I got there I was fifteen and could disappear for hours at a time without anybody worrying about where I was or who hung out with me." Emma focuses on her work while she speaks. If she regards Regina's reaction she doubts she'd be able to finish. "They weren't bad folks. They just didn't care about people like Kandinsky or Gauguin much less art theory and history. I didn't have their blessing or their respect, so I took matters into my own hands and enrolled at the nearest community college, even though most of what I know today is from extracurricular research."

Regina looks from Emma to the finely rolled joint and back. "So you are a self-taught artist?"

"If that's what you want to call it, I guess."

It barely meets the minimum of an explanation, but then that is the point. The flesh of Regina's lips tightens into a line. She's unsure how to respond and, therefore, settles for a somber study of the woman sitting there, focused, beautiful, and amazing Regina with a power oblivious to her being.

Emma lights the joint, inhales, and offers it over.

Still perturbed by the litany of unanswered questions, Regina takes it without a thought. "Fuck, that's good," she sighs after a decent pull. She breathes out suddenly aware of how exhausted she is. It feels like 15 years of built up, mandatory tension and she lets it all go with one long exhale.

"What about you?" asks Emma after a brief intermission. "Do you paint?"

"I used to."

She waits and when the silence only grows Emma leans back on the couch and remarks brazenly, "Well, that has to be the shortest story I ever heard."

Regina reclines, too, despite how unbecoming the slouched posture might look to those individuals whose opinions she never gave a damn about. "You are one to talk," she shoots back, side-glancing Emma. A smirk tugs at her mouth.

"Now who's acting all coy and mysterious?"

"Just because I'm not forthcoming doesn't mean I am without an adequate explanation."

Emma simply challenges with a raised brow.

"In my family a sure thing is better than an unsure thing," Regina starts. The account isn't as meticulously organized as her day planner, but she finds the words coming easier in Emma's presence. Just the warmth and patience of her company allows Regina to breathe with ease. "A liberal arts education was a risk my parents pleaded with me not to take. Career and image were everything to them. But I was the first in my family to break tradition – and the last," she adds enigmatically, eyes downcast. "Our past comes back to remind us of our place and at the most inopportune time. Art was my life's passion, then it became my hobby, and now…" Regina prepares two fingers and plucks an errant flake from her tongue and flicks it away. "Well," she ends on a note of finality and a wistfulness common in many cynics whose hopes have long expired.

A part of Emma – no, the whole part – breaks for the loss this woman has sustained. She doesn't want to venture a guess at how difficult that burden must be to bear. It's no casual fancy, art. You have to want it bad, so bad in fact that you have to force certain necessities to take a back seat, things like good food, clothing, shelter. And you must work hard enough to be not good, not great, but _exceptional_. Emma knows that life like the bristles of her paintbrush and it is no cushy lifestyle. Regina's situation is different (obviously because she came from a wealthy family) but the burden remains. Her passion, her reason for smiles, and that reassuring ache in her fingers from painting so long… it is all so near, but so out of reach.

Emma knows the ache. The blade that cuts like someone telling you "No, you _can't_ ," hurts more than words can describe. She understands the pain Regina is feeling as she divulges her troubles. No matter how masterful a manipulator in facial expressions and in forging that wall around the heartache, Regina cannot go unnoticed. The hands hugging her middle and the diverting eyes are too revealing of the things she _won't_ say, the things that eviscerate her throat just by speaking them. It's vulnerability and Emma understands that more than she'd like to admit and it scares her to the point of stumbling.

"A-and what do they think now?"

"My parents? They're gone," Regina supplies pithily before the question can be asked. "I'm honoring their legacy by putting their money to good use."

Head rising, Emma gathers, "Discovering talent." Now she understands the plight of the overworked, misunderstood woman.

Regina nods without actually looking at Emma.

"But you've given up on your own talent."

"That's just the way things are." A palm shrugs to lend itself to the point. Regina shakes her head, eyes fluttering as she is at a loss for how else to explain it. "We can't always get everything we want, Emma. I've reconciled with the fact that some artists grow out of the phase and, instead, use their experience to help others. That's what I'm doing. I'm helping people and that suits me."

"Fuck that."

"Excuse me?"

"Fuck helping people!" Emma sputters, axing her hand down as if to put the notion out of its misery. "Christ, you're not a martyr, Regina! Try being a little selfish, why don't you? I know you have it in you."

While Emma is catching her breath Regina is gaping in disbelief. She tilts her heat to the side, trying to work out the angle behind 'insulting the person trying to boost your career.'

All of a sudden Emma lunges, passionately, and with a blaze of fire in her eyes, for the face blinking in surprise and cradles it between her hands. "This is undiscovered talent." She then takes the limp hands in hers and gives them a shake as if to shock some sense into them. "This is undiscovered talent." She knows it will take time to prove it, but the mining of that priceless, luminous piece of Regina will be worth it – for her, for Emma, for the world if only they just open their goddamned eyes to this pearl. "And this," Emma places her hand above Regina's breast, "this is too." Steely passion softens to something just as marked. The profound smoothness painting her face shows how precious she believes this heart to be.

The chances of being enchanted by this nostalgia are slim, yet the spell cast by Emma's vibrant green eyes is like a captive embrace. She feels imprisoned by the admissions because all her life she was trained to doubt them. But she is also faced with the breathtaking sense of freedom – to do as she pleases, to believe in whom she trusts.

After everything Emma has made her feel why should Regina declaim it? Isn't this what she wanted? Inspiration? A muse? A reason to drop the shackles of her present toils and pick up a paintbrush? Oh, how _good_ it used to feel between her fingers. For hours she could spin it blindly in her hands, envisioning her masterpiece before ever having to make a single brush stroke. She misses that. She longs for those interminable hours, staring, wondering, and painting with her eyes.

Emma is defending a gift that has been so long locked up Regina has forgotten what it's like to project her imagination. Emma is defending a young Regina who would frown upon this relentless need to carry on a tradition that should have perished the day her parents had. To be upset with Emma is absurd when her only crime has been coaxing Regina's true desires out of her shell. Regina has never felt more like herself – her _true_ self – when she is with Emma. She doesn't have to put on a performance. She does not require high heels, coiffed hair, or a memorized speech in order to get noticed. Emma just wants her as she is.

The truth behind Emma's words emanates like sunrays from her fingertips. It warms the skin under her splayed hand and Regina has to be sure it is no magic trick. She lifts her hand and covers the one on her chest and tangles their fingers together. It is done without ever having to break the powerful gaze they share. Regina's eyes fall closed around the moisture and she understands… it is no trick.

"It pisses me off," Emma mutters, "because her you are, a privileged, creative woman who sacrifices her own gift for the next person's. I never had that kind of opportunity and if I did I wouldn't squander it or take it for granted."

She ends on a resounding point, gripping the fingers around hers and pressing passion into Regina's heart with their tangled hands. Emma's eyes flit down to the response that squeezes back. It's captivating to watch and has the air in her lungs catching. She remembers these fingers making love to her not long ago; these fingers which had been pumping their length inside her and painting her walls with the color of her arousal.

 _If she can do that, I wonder what she can accomplish with an actual brush at her fingertips._

The warmth recedes with a fleeting hand. Turning, Regina uses it to wipe away at her cheeks. It's not her proudest moment, nor does it express what she truly feels, but maybe it's just her. She'll never know because she is who she is; the woman of one-night stands and momentary love affairs. For as unfulfilling as that life has become, she dares not ask if she's the only one.

In a spur of the moment, Regina asks for some tea, if only to be left unattended with the paintings again.

Later, a near disorienting series of clanks and clinks of porcelain follow Emma out of the kitchen and around the couch. She deposits the wooden breakfast tray on the coffee table. The spread laid before Regina is awarded with the gasp Emma anticipated.

"You taste in chinaware is…" Regina's mouth twists, uncertain how to deliver it without offense, "impressive. I always figured you for a mug person."

"Garage sale," Emma supplies. "I got them in a set. A real steal."

"I'm sure." Regina smirks. She has the sneaking suspicion that the woman couldn't distinguish between the correct usage of a tea spoon and a pair of tongs.

And sure enough Emma brandishes the spoon and dives into the sugar bowl. Four sparkling white sugar cubes are bulldozed into her cup with the finesse of a professional arm wrestler.

 _Brings a whole new meaning to bull in a china shop._

"Something funny?" Emma asks. She dabs at the spill before taking a liberal gulp from her drink.

Clearing her throat, Regina grins around the lip of her teacup before setting it down. The rim of its bottom meets the saucer with a dainty clink. "Not at all."

"You know, now that we're sharing first impressions I have to admit I didn't peg you for a stoner."

"Well, at the expense of your inappropriate vocabulary, I will have you know that I am not some…"

Emma tried to force back the smile, but it's so inevitable with the way Regina hedges. "Stoner?" The scowl she receives only manages to exacerbate her amusement.

"No," Regina grinds out, only partially offended, "but I was never the good, decent girl I have been portrayed as. I may have lived up to the brand in public, though not in private."

Draping an arm over the back of the couch, Emma reclines back and drawls, "Don't I know it."

"Your vulgarity ceases to charm, dear."

"Oh, I don't know about that. You seemed to appreciate my vulgar side _quite_ a bit today… on my kitchen counter and in _bed_ , if I'm not mistaken."

The corner of Regina's sealed mouth tugs up at the sight of wiggling eyebrows. "I'm sure I'm going to regret saying this, but there is something outrageously appealing in your lack of modesty."

"The key word there being _appealing_."

"Or the outrageous part," Regina defends with mock affront.

It doesn't escape them that the underlying subject raises quite a few questions. In fact, the significance of it strikes them at the same time with Emma ducking into her cup and Regina zeroing her stare in on the gray paws making their stealthy way under the coffee table.

"So…" Emma breaks the awkward silence. She sets her cup down before the tremble can be detected. Her voice, however, cannot be stripped of its cowardice. "You may not own the traits of a high class Puritan, but… do you, uhmm, d-do you often –"

"As I implied before," Regina cuts in, half as resolute as Emma, "I have been caught in far more compromising positions than this. You can ask me..." her tongue blunders before it can be taken back, "anything."

Emma clears her throat. Her eyes are shifting from Regina's to the couch to the floor to her paintings and back to Regina in an obscure circle of nervousness. "Well, I was just wondering if you were going to see those two men from the party again, or if it was just a onetime thing – not that there's anything wrong with that. I mean, if you want to see them again that's okay, too. I'm sure it's of no consequence to you due to the fact that some weeks have passed." Emma utters a breathy 'ha' to clear the tension even though it just tightens the cords of anxiety around her gut. "It's just a meaningless curiosity."

Her eyes blink rapidly like she just poured a vat of acid into them. It's getting too difficult to focus on Regina's blank expression. Her refusal (or indifference) in shutting this rant down before something really embarrassing tumbles out is kind of pissing Emma off. That unreadable stare is so vicious when it burns into her, and it's kind of hurtful if she really thinks about it.

After a drained sigh, Regina finally puts the woman out of her misery with an "I don't know." The couch creaks with Emma's changing position (away from her occasional lover) and Regina realizes a vague certainty is not going to cut it. "I will be seeing Joshua and Kamal in a professional capacity, yes, but I make it an obligation not to engage in personal, long-term connections. It simply doesn't translate well with the stresses of my daily life: magazine editor, art dealer, professional image consultant. Not to mention the whole heiress to a fortune part has a tendency to intimidate." Regina wets her lips before knitting them into a tight line. She frowns down at her wringing hands and swallows hard before saying, "Relationships are not something I do often." Or well, she thinks bitterly.

In the midst of her stumbling confession Emma has risen from the couch and started wearing at the finish of her wood floor. She paces from one end of her small studio to the foot of her bed and back at a steady, constant speed that makes Regina dizzy. It's been a few minutes since she opened herself up to Emma, and it's unclear whether the decision is regretted. While tugging at her bottom lip, Regina watches her pace and silently begs her to stand still, say something, or sit back down for god's sake! The couch is starting to feel a bit lonely and Regina really doesn't want to beg. She feels cold and alone and desires what she knows cannot be taken without permission.

"Okay. Well. What does your version of a relationship entail?"

Regina blinks, looks up, and realizes that Emma has stopped pacing and is gesturing with her hands like charades is going to better explain it. Floundering for an answer, Regina casts her gaze down to Oscar who is regarding her with oddly similar anticipation as his owner. All eyes are on her and she opens her mouth… but nothing.

The couch dips with Emma's weight, successfully tearing Regina from the clouds.

"What is your ideal partnership?" Emma rephrases, pretty sold on the fact that it's never actually been asked of this woman. It only takes a look for her to understand how few people in Regina's life have offered her the freedom to choose. There's a whole other element to her question and there may be some baggage dragging behind it, but Emma can't help the springing hope in her eyes.

Regina sees the flash of enthusiasm before it is tamped down. The source of it is so easily identified because she is overwhelmed by the same effect. Her vision widens and she understands. It leads her to wonder… maybe she should stop shutting good things out; maybe her path needs a detour, one that isn't paved by her family.

And there Emma is looking so… _Emma_ in her tattered, paint-stained shirt. It's so her and Regina can't keep that feeling beneath her chest from expanding. Her paintings continue to stand out in vivid display around the studio – here, there, over her left shoulder as a magnificent sunset background to a more magnificent flaxen-haired forefront. After an unlikely meeting at a dismal party, Regina is still bombarded with that same sense of marvel. It hasn't escaped her since that night her breath had been stolen away with a muttered curse and few fumbling strokes of hand to unruly hair. Emma never cared much for people like her, but something in the way she moves their hands together, intertwining in the space between them, convinces Regina that that rule has long been thrown out the window.

The proposal is unwavering and delivered with such intensive care that Regina has to dignify it with an answer.


End file.
